


I Keep Running From the Stars Like a Bullet from a Gun (And Every Shot I Take is Another Web I've Spun)

by DreamsAreMyWords



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Alternate Universe - Criminals, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Clarklexa - Freeform, Clexa, F/F, Kidnapped AU, Multi, Octaven
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-17
Updated: 2016-05-17
Packaged: 2018-06-09 02:02:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6884755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamsAreMyWords/pseuds/DreamsAreMyWords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Imagine Clarke's surprise when she is kidnapped by a secret group of rebels called The 13 Clans and learns that she had been kidnapped from them when she was a baby, and that the people she'd grown up calling mom and dad are actually con artists Titus and Nia.</p><p>Imagine her surprise when she realizes that the Commander of the rebel group was actually her childhood friend, though the word "friendly" wouldn't exactly describe their relationship now...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kidnapped

**Author's Note:**

  * For [707](https://archiveofourown.org/users/707/gifts).



> Warning: this is old writing I decided to convert to Clexa, so the writing is probably less than adequate. I hope you enjoy anyway x
> 
> Gifted to 707 for their lovely fic "Are You A Kidnapper? (Because You Abducted My Heart) because I fucking love it and it inspired me to finish this fic I started like 3 years ago as a Quinntana AU but never got around to finishing.

* * *

 

           Pale orange light poured in through the chink in the heavy periwinkle curtains drawn over the windows in the bedroom. The light crawled over Clarke’s legs first, tangled and twisted up in the thin silk bed sheets, before rising higher and higher, flowing over her sleeping form to land on her face, bleeding red through her eyelids and waking her with a start.

            Clarke’s eyes were difficult to open; they clung together in heavy black clumps, sticky with the residue of a night perhaps better left forgotten. Her hair was a matted disarray of wild blonde tresses, and her body was achingly sore as she pushed herself up onto her elbows, blowing her fringe out of her eyes before she swung her legs off the bed and stood up, wavering until finding her balance. She cringed at the sour taste in the back of her throat, and at the bitter, sharp pungency of alcohol permeating the air. Her head throbbed, seemingly in vindictive glee over her displeasure as she remembered last night.

            “Ugh, _God_ ,” she moaned, and fell back onto the bed.

            She didn’t bother checking her purse for the wad of bills that she knew weren’t there. She flinched as she imagined what her mother’s reaction would be when she discovered that Clarke had went out again, for the third time in the past week, and had again, for the third time in the past week, blown through her allowance. The other two times, it had been spent mostly on drinks. This time, however, Clarke could vaguely recall, in random snippets of pumping music and flashing dance lights, that she had been screaming in raucous laughter as she tossed bill after bill at her best friend as he twirled around and around on a pole as half-naked woman shook their behinds around him. _Oh, Jesus._ Hopefully her mother wouldn’t find out about _that._

            Clarke sighed as she rolled over in bed, and absently fingered a stray feather poking out of a pillow. Her phone vibrated from where it was perched haphazardly on the dresser. She had probably thrown it there when she stumbled into the house in her intoxicated state last night. It buzzed again, but she ignored it. She knew it was Wells, calling to check up on her. Actually, strike that, he probably wasn’t calling to check on her, he was probably calling to see whether or not Clarke wanted to grab lunch before they prepared to head back into town for the night. If the pounding of Clarke’s head was any indication, she thought she’d had enough of partying for one week.

            Of course, no sooner had she thought that did her door burst open with a loud bang as it rebounded against the wall. She jumped and cursed profusely, but that did nothing to hinder Wells, who only stood laughing with eyes Clarke knew must be crinkled and sparkling behind black sunglasses.

            Wells Jaha had been Clarke’s best friend since they were seven years old and during one sunny recess, fell in mutual love over our obsession with art. After a few days of chattering excitedly about everything they had in common (they were the richest kids in class, coincidentally), they had their parents put them in the same art class. Over the course of the next fifteen years, they were inseparable, “as thick as thieves,” in the words of her mother. It came as a shock to no one when they both left for the same college. Wells, who had always easily been the best sculptor in class, was insanely talented, so getting a full-ride scholarship to Yale University was as natural as breathing to him. Clarke received a similar scholarship to Yale, though her focus was in charcoal and paintings. During Christmas and Summer breaks, they returned home to DC, where they grew up in and their parents still lived.

            Presently, it was summer, thus the partying three times a week. Clarke didn’t think she could take much more of it, to be perfectly honest. They weren’t as young as they used to be—even though twenty-two was still pretty young. Clarke squinted up at Wells, appearing all handsome and chipper in his fashionable suit, with his stylish fade and his blindingly white smile. Most of Clarke’s other friends (her female ones in particular) were enamored with Wells, and Clarke could see why. He was kind, he was hilarious, he was very attractive, beyond talented, he was smart, and he was the cutest dork ever. Clarke, however, just didn’t see him that way, as much as she wished she could.

            Wells grinned at the withering scowl Clarke gave him, lifting up his peace offering—a tray of coffee, and judging by the holes where two missing cups were supposed to go, she assumed he’d already delivered to Clarke’s mother and to Kim, the maid.

            “Ugh, give it here then,” huffed Clarke, snatching her coffee from his hand.

            Wells sat down on the foot of her bed as she curled up at the head of it. “Now that you’re up, do you want—“

            “No,” she said shortly, cutting him off before he could finish. His grin didn’t falter, and when Clarke lifted her eyebrows in warning, glaring at him over the rim of her mocha-Carmel coffee, Wells waggled his own.

            “Gina’s going to be there.”

            Clarke nearly spewed her coffee out; Wells thumped her on the back as she coughed, her eyes streaming as she struggled to regain some semblance of a normal breathing pattern. Finally, she managed to rasp, “What? Gina Martin?”

            “No, Gina Cerano,” said Wells somberly, and Clarke glared at him again. He laughed. “Yes, Gina Martin. What other Gina do we know?”

            “Oh my God,” Clarke exclaimed, incredulous at the thought. “I haven’t seen her in—years. I don’t think I’ve seen her since we were in high school. Why is she in town?”

            Wells shrugged. “She didn’t say. She just Facebook messaged me and asked if we were doing anything tonight, then asked if we wanted to meet for a drink and catch up.”

            “Wow,” Clarke breathed, sitting back against the headboard of her bed. Gina Martin. Clarke and Wells became friends with Gina when we were nine, and Gina joined their art class. Gina moved away when she they were all freshman in high school, but they remained in contact via Facebook. If Clarke was being perfectly truthful here, she hadn’t thought of Gina in a couple years. But the fact that the last time she saw her was at Clarke’s graduation party directly after her senior year of high school and Gina had said something to her that was particularly…unsettling, made Clarke really, really interested in seeing her again—not only to catch up with her, but to find out in person exactly what she’d meant by that irritating little comment she’d made that stuck with Clarke even now, almost five years later.

            “Alright,” she decided. Wells’ face lit up at the prospect of going out again. Clarke didn’t know how he did it; he was even more of a lightweight than _she_ was. “Let’s go, then. Where did he want to meet?”

            “Arkadia,” answered Wells, as he stood up to follow Clarke into her walk-in closet.

            “That little bar on 71st that’s always empty?” Clarke inquired, turning to flash Wells a puzzled frown over her shoulder.

            Wells nodded. “Yep.” He shrugged. “Guess she wants somewhere quiet that we can talk."

            “I guess,” said Clarke dubiously, shaking her head at Gina’s taste in bars. Nevertheless, she picked out her best dress, a sleek, smooth silvery fabric that shimmered whenever it moved, and draped it over Wells’ waiting arm. After fifteen years of this, he knew the drill.

            “We’re totally still hitting Camp Jaha after, right?”

            Clarke sighed, her insatiable thirst for something to do other than waste away at this huge mansion listening to her mother complain about her stepfather finally getting the best of her. “I hate you, Wells Jaha.”

            Wells chuckled from behind her. “It’s not nice to lie, Clarke Wallace.”

 

* * *

 

            

            Gina was waiting for them at an isolated table placed in one of the more shadowy corners of the bar, huddled close with a stranger with dark, slicked-back hair and a charming smile. He greeted Clarke and Wells warmly, and had no reservations about tightly clasping their hands to shake, while Gina seemed a little nervous and cool towards them. When Gina’s voice shook as she introduced them to Bellamy Blake, her boyfriend of two years, Clarke and Wells exchanged a look as they slid into their chairs.

            “Are you feeling okay, Gina?” asked Clarke as she shrugged out of her coat.

            Gina nodded immediately, though she overdid it. Clarke frowned as Gina finally stilled herself after nodding five times. Initially Clarke had chalked it up to nerves at seeing old friends, but Gina was just being… _weird_. Blanching at Clarke and Wells’ confused silence, Gina’s eyes widened and she burst out, “No, no, I—I’m not. It—it’s the…anniversary of m—my mother’s death today.”

            Clarke’s stomach clenched as her eyes widened. “Oh, God, Gina, I—I’m so sorry, I completely…” Her voice trailed off feebly; she watched helplessly as an ashen-faced Gina was drawn into Bellamy’s embrace. Bellamy smiled apologetically at them, holding his girlfriend against his chest as he rubbed her back consolingly. Clarke and Wells were both at a loss for words. They had no idea that today was the anniversary of Gina losing her mother to breast cancer, and Clarke had no earthly idea why Gina would choose this day of all days to meet up with a couple of old friends for drinks. It made no sense to Clarke, and she was so shaken up and uncomfortable that she couldn’t even grasp the proper thought-process to ask Gina,, so she merely flagged over a waitress and ordered a round of drinks for the table.

            “It—It’s okay,” sniffed Gina after a time, coming up from Bellamy’s chest with skin so white it looked as though she could use a hot meal, let alone a couple drinks in her system. “I just—I didn’t want to bring it up, make everything uncomfortable, but it’s hard.”

            Clarke and Wells both nodded sympathetically. “I’m sorry, Gina,” said Wells sincerely, and Clarke nodded again to echo her agreement with him.

            “It’s fine, it’s fine. Just…pretend that didn’t just happen.” Gina sat up straighter, waving away the words as though it wiped them clean from their minds. “So,” she began, her voice turning hesitant again. She glanced anxiously at Bellamy, who only smiled serenely back at her, before continuing. “How have you guys been? How’s…how’s life treating ya?” The last question seemed almost desperate, as though Gina was struggling to remain nonchalant about this whole situation. Clarke didn’t understand why. If she was upset, she should just go home. It was honestly no big deal.

            Wells, who forever remained immeasurably tactless compared to Clarke, beamed as he began to speak of the art program in the university they attended. Gina listened to him with a blank face, while a strange intensity was fixed onto Bellamy’s. Though Clarke kept her face carefully composed into a pleasant expression, as she sipped on her glass of wine, she wondered what the hell was off about those two. Her gut was telling her that something wasn’t right, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. They were just… _weird._ Gina wasn’t that weird normally. The last time Clarke saw her, she had been was all smiles and beaming as she toasted Clarke at her high school grad party. Now, she was nervously clasping her hands together as she pretended to listen to Wells, her eyes unfocused and the corners of her mouth trembling. If it really were because of her mother, wouldn’t she have picked a different day to meet them? Or was Clarke just totally overthinking this whole thing?

            “How about you, Clarke?” asked Bellamy, turning his unnervingly intense gaze onto Clarke once Wells finished speaking. Bellamy took a deliberately small sip of his wine, never taking his eyes off Clarke. They were a dark brown, and she wondered what they’d look like with warmth in them. “I’ve heard you attend Yale as well? That’s impressive.”

            Clarke dipped her head in gracious acknowledgment. “Thank you. Yeah, I’m a senior. A super senior, actually.”

            Bellamy’s thick brows furrowed in innocent interest that didn’t seem at all good intentioned to Clarke. “And you’re double-majoring in art and pre-med. Right?”

            Clarke nodded again, taking another drink. Clarke watched him for a second, tipping her half-empty glass back and forth and listening to the red wine quietly splash against the sides, before she decided to change the subject onto him. She really knew nothing about this Bellamy, and he seemed shady already. How did she know he wasn’t some asshole working for the man her father was running against, trying to screw her over to aid in taking out her dad? As the thought struck her, she gripped her glass more tightly. “Who are you?” she asked forthright.

            For the first time this evening, Bellamy’s serene composure broke, and he leaned back, appearing slightly startled. What little color the wine had given to Gina drained out again as her pink-tinged cheeks turned white, and she stared at Clarke like a deer caught in headlights. Clarke kept her gaze on Bellamy, calm and curious, even though inside, her thoughts were steamrolling through her head, panic seeping into her. What if this Bellamy was a reporter? Clarke had seen pictures of him before, from whatever Gina posted on Facebook that appeared on her newsfeed. There had never been anything to indicate he was in journalism, but this was just peculiar. What if he knew about the office her father was planning on running for? What if he was here to dig up information on Dante Wallace’s rich, partying daughter?

            After a pregnant pause during which Wells repeatedly looked back and forth between the three of them, Bellamy cleared his throat. “What do you mean by that?” he said, his voice judiciously composed.

            Clarke’s spidey senses were tingling. _God, I’ve been around Wells too much, if I’m starting to quote Spider-Man._

Equally collected, she said evenly, “Who are you? All I know about you is your name and the fact that you’ve been in a relationship with my friend for around two years. How did you meet? Where are you from? What brings the two of you…” Her gaze shifted and lingered on Gina, who fidgeted in her seat, appearing terrified. “To DC?”

            Bellamy relaxed almost immediately, his face splitting into a charismatic beam. “Well, I’m from Wisconsin, actually,” he said brightly. “Gina and I met in high school, during the Basketball finals in…. San Antonio, wasn’t it?” Gina nodded slowly, still pallid as she peered intently down into her untouched glass of wine. “She was a cheerleader for the team we were playing against. It was our third time Championship.”

            “Your school lost, huh?” asked Wells teasingly, grinning at Gina. Gina looked up, a wide smile fixed on her face that didn’t quite meet her eyes. Again, Gina only nodded.

            “I asked her for her number, and we texted off and on for the next two years, started dating on and off before we broke up for a year. When we were back in the same town, I asked her out for coffee one afternoon, and she agreed, and it just…” Bellamy shrugged, and though she was still suspicious, she had to begrudgingly admit that his smile appeared genuine now. “Just kind of snowballed from there. We started officially dating a month later, and here we are now.”

            Clarke tilted her head, fluttering her lashes as she said sweetly, “That’s cute. But you still didn’t answer one question.” Bellamy’s brows furrowed again. “ _Why_ are you _here_?” she repeated.

            Bellamy opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, Gina spurt out in an overtly loud voice, “We—what do you mean, what a stupid question, why are we here? Because—because my mom, she would’ve—she would’ve wanted me to come see friends, and…and you guys are my friends, so—so that’s why we came here, to see you, not for anything weird or anything, I mean—just friends catching up, of course,” she said in one rushed breath, and ended it with a breathy, nervous laugh that seemed to echo around the table, as Wells frowned at Gina in confusion, Gina gaped at Clarke, and Bellamy and Clarke glowered at one another.

            Clarke leaned forward and said in a lowered tone, “Do you _really_ want to start something with my father? Because he’s really good at making people like you, _disappear_.”

            The result was pandemonium. One moment, Clarke was slanting across the table, clutching her empty glass of wine in one hand and using the other to balance herself. The next, the entire table was being toppled over, her glass shattered between her hand and the floor, someone’s hand had a fistful of her hair, and another hand shoved hard at her chest, pushing her back. She heard a scream from the only other person in the entire bar, the barmaid behind the counter, before it was cut off. She heard a shriek that sounded like it came from Gina, and she heard a grunt right in her ear that was definitely Wells, and the hand in her hair loosened its grip before falling out completely. A loud bang rang through the air, and there was a hissing noise before white smoke clouded through the dimly lit building in voluminous billows, and then shouting that she realized was coming from Bellamy.

            “She…self-aware!” She heard two disconnected words before there was a roaring sound, a wail, and then utter silence.

            Clarke lay frozen, blood dripping from the one long gash that extended from the bottom left of her palm and curved around to the back of her middle knuckle, and the multiple tiny cuts that crisscrossed the skin of her palm. The smoke that hung in the air seemed to settle, and she coughed as she lifted her head and surveyed the damage. The table they had sat at was strewn in splinters all over the room, and the other furniture was broken and in pieces too. Plates and glasses were in shards on the floor, and two of the front windows were shattered.

            A groan that sounded next to her pulled her out of my shock, and she turned to see Wells lying on his back, the entirety of his torso stained with blood, beaming holly-bright from the huge patch of red on the front of his white shirt.

            Clarke screamed his name and lunged toward him, launching herself across the dilapidated remains of the table and chairs. While some part of her knew that a person that injured should not be moved, she still thoughtlessly seized him by the front of his drenched shirt and tugged him toward her, barely managing to pull him onto her lap. She shook him roughly, so stunned and panicked that she could not find the breath to scream with again. She only continued to shake him, whispering his name in croaky fragments. He was awake, and writhed in her arms a bit, bewilderment and fear on his face, and some numb, disjointed part of Clarke wondered if he was going to die in her arms, with her hands clutching his shirt, all soaked in blood. Then the smell and the cold feel of it hit her, and she sagged in relief as she realized it was only spilled wine.

            “God,” she gasped, sucking in a ragged breath. She shoved him back, irrationally angry all of the sudden, her stomach curdling low in her gut. She was pissed at him for making her think he was dying. Then she realized the situation they were in, and that it was much more serious than she ever could have imagined. “Get up,” she said at once, dropping her voice to a whisper.

            “Wha—“ began Wells, obviously nonplussed.

            “Shh,” she said urgently, clutching his arms, trying to pull him up into a standing position with her. Her right leg was burning for some reason, but she ignored it, struggling to help Wells to his feet. “Hurry.” She held him behind her with one hand, swiftly side-stepping the piles of broken glass from the bar, and led him towards the door. Her heart felt like it was pounding in her throat, threatening to choke her, and her rapid breathing betrayed it. Gina was slumped over unconscious in the center of the room, and Bellamy lay sprawled out not far from her. Clarke jumped when he stirred, and moved along faster as she and Wells darted out of the building.

            “Hurry,” urged Clarke again, marching down the street, where throngs of onlookers had already started to gather to get a look at the bar that had just half-blown up. Her voice was cool and firm, unlike how Clarke currently felt on the inside, which was stricken and horrified.

            As they ducked into an empty alleyway, Wells spoke. “Cl—Wait, Clarke!” Clarke stopped, whirling around when Wells gripped her above the elbow, a snarl on her face. He let go at once, which certainly didn’t help his confusion. “What’s going on? What just happened?”

            Clarke quickly glanced around, furtively checking to make sure they were the only ones who stood in this dark alley. “That guy back there, Bellamy—he’s not really Gina’s boyfriend.” She shook her head, remembering how she’d seen him on Gina’s Facebook for the past two years. “I mean, maybe he is, but that’s not all. He’s—“

            She fell silent when she spotted movement out of the corner of her eye. She ducked to the side just in time, spinning out of the way as a person garbed from head to toe in all black came lunging out of the shadows at her. She yelped and kicked out a foot in instinct, making contact with the person thigh; she screamed again as she unconsciously flung a fist out at the next person that loomed near, hitting them square in the nose.

            “What the fuck—“

            Clarke was cut off with a strangled cry when something closed over her mouth and nose, and a strong, hard arm wrapped around her chest, pinning her arms to her side. She went to suck in a breath out of instinct and instead was met with some suffocating, cloying chemical that clogged her pores, made her eyes water and caused a gag to be ripped from her throat. As she was dragged backwards, she saw the same thing happening to Wells, someone wrestling him down to the ground.

            “Shut up,” a voice hissed in her ear, before her stomach started to float and her tongue went fuzzy and she was met with nothingness as her eyes rolled into the back of her head.

* * *

 

            “Lady, you need to wake the fuck up. Come on.”

            Clarke moaned quietly, her head lolling on her neck as a hand slapped lightly and insistently on her cheek. There was an impatient sigh, and then a woman’s voice spoke again. “Get the water. Pour it on her head,” the woman ordered.

            Clarke gasped in shock, inhaling the freezing cold liquid that had been dumped more on her face than on the top of her head. She coughed, her arms flailing as she sat up straighter, bowing her head and squeezing her eyes shut to rid herself of the water that was running her eyeliner right into her eyes. “F—fuck!” She managed through chattering teeth. She shivered, blinking rapidly as she looked up at whoever the hell was leering over her, an empty bucket hanging from his grip.

            “She’s up. Now let’s get the fuck out of here,” came a male voice that sounded just as irascible as the woman’s did.

            “Wait,” said the woman firmly. As Clarke’s gaze came into focus, she recognized the shape of a person squatting next to her, realized that she was sitting down on cold concrete, her back leaned up against a brick wall. A man stood a few feet away, holding the bucket. “Can you hear us?” asked the woman in a slow, clear tone.

            Clarke nodded, wincing when her head throbbed.

            The woman glanced back over her shoulder at the man before she scooted closer to Clarke. Clarke’s heart was thrashing and she was breathing perhaps more rapidly than was healthy, but she was more scared than she had ever been in her life, including that time Mrs. Jaha was in a car wreck on the way to Clarke and Wells’ art show. She had no idea who these people were, but if they were here for the same reason as Bellamy, who knows what they were going to do to her. Everyone knew state officials were rich, and her father was the richest of them all. If these people planned on kidnapping her and using her as a hostage to get rich off her father…well, it was a solid plan for financial gain, she’d give them that.

            “Okay. Can you tell us what just happened in that bar?” the woman asked, her voice low and deliberately casual, but Clarke could see her, garbed in all black, crouching beside her looking positively tense.

            Clarke swallowed, her mouth dry and her throat burning. Her head swam, and she wished she hadn’t drunk that glass of wine. “Um. I don’t know.” The woman made a _tsk_ sound, as though she didn’t believe her. Clarke felt black creep toward the center of her vision again as her hearing seemed to flicker out. The woman’s voice sounded distant as she gripped Clarke by her shoulders and held her steady, murmuring, “Hang on a sec. We just want to talk. If you remain calm, there’s no need for any violence, as much as I like violence. Now tell us. What happened in that bar?” She repeated the question firmly, slowly again, and Clarke could tell by her fingers digging into her shoulders that she meant business.

            Should she comply? Clarke stared at her, wishing she could see something other than the hazel brown eyes watching her intently, partially obscured by the narrow slits serving as eyeholes on her cloth-swathed face. Of course they would wear masks. If Clarke got away, they wouldn’t want her to be able to recognize them in case they were caught at a line up, or they tried again. The skin around her eyes tightened. She was never one to back down from a challenge, so she would take the threatening route.

            “My father is going to kill you,” she whispered harshly, and she saw those almond-shaped eyes narrow a moment before there was a sharp crack on the side of her head, and she fell into nothingness again.

 

* * *

 

            “Rise and shine, Blondie.”

            “Get the fuck up, bitch.”

            Clarke grunted, squeezing her eyes shut tighter as she felt something make contact with her stomach. She was lying on her side, her legs tied and her arms bound together behind her back. She curled into a smaller fetal position as her gut radiated with the hollow pain of being kicked.

            “Q, don’t kick her,” said a female voice reproachfully.

            “Shut up, E,” answered a rough male one.

            “Tell her to shut up one more time, and I will shove my fist so far down your throat that you’ll taste my elbow before I pull your dick inside out,” came a threateningly low female voice, and the male voice faded with a grumble. Absently, Clarke recognized that that voice was the one that had hissed shut up to me, so it was pretty damn ironic that she was telling that guy off for saying shut up to the other girl.

            The soft-voiced girl said something else that I didn’t quite catch, and then the man spoke again.

            “…Don’t see why it matters. She knows, and she’s still on his side. Bitch is not a friend.”

            “We don’t know that,” the soft-voiced girl said with an air of repetition in her tone, as though she’d had to remind the man of this on more than one occasion.

            “We do, though!” the man insisted. “You saw her try to fucking blow up Bellamy and Gina, not to mention she took off running when any normal person would have called the fucking cops—“

            “Maybe she was just scared,” suggested the softer girl.

            The man snorted. “Please. She’s been living with Mount Weather scum for her entire life, not to mention running around with the Jaha City of Light psychopaths. She’s gunning for us, I’m _telling_ you. Fuck taking her to the Commander, we should just take care of her now.”

            “Quiet,” the lower female voice ordered again, and the other two fell silent. “She’s waking up.”

            Clarke stirred, blinking blearily as she tried to get her bearings. Her mind worked furiously despite her sleepy state, and Clarke quickly ran through the list of things she did know. She was being held hostage by a group of at least four people. Her old friend was obviously in on it, which Clarke never would have expected out of Gina. Clarke’s father wouldn’t know she was missing until next week, when they were supposed to meet for the annual Fourth of July party. Wells was nowhere to be found, though Clarke presumed he was locked up somewhere in the same building as she was, considering he was a witness to the crime. And Clarke was in deep, deep shit, she realized, as she stared up at the three people who towered above her, all wearing the same black suits that reminded her of some kind of mix between a ninja and a secret agent, and gave her a startling sense of surrealism as she had to wonder for a moment whether or not any of this was real, or she was home passed out from drinking too much, and was just having a fucking weird dream.

            “What—“ she squeaked, and the man started laughing, deep robust laughs that caused him to double over. The girl next to him, who wore an odd mitt or something that looked ridiculously big and protruded far out of her left sleeve shook her head, and Clarke could tell by her body language that she was amused as well. The other girl, who stood at a slight distance from the other two, had a mane of dirty-blonde hair and a scowl visible even though the mask. Okay, it wasn’t visible at all, but Clarke somehow just knew it was there.

            “Aw, are you scared?” mockingly asked the man, and Clarke frowned, her mouth tightening into a thin line and her chin lifting into the air. She was not about to give these losers the satisfaction of seeing her looking so nervous, so she adopted a cool, composed expression, and stared at him from her position on the ground.

            “We should probably let her go to the bathroom,” recommended the girl with the strange glove.

            “Nah, Mount Weather rats can piss and shit in their pants, just like the scum they are,” retorted the man, with only a hint of mirth in his voice, which told Clarke he was serious and, if he had his way, she really would be pissing herself right here, which was likely considering her bladder was about to burst.

            “God, you are so dramatic,” said the taller girl with a lofty tone, and she snapped her fingers. The door to the far end of the white room Clarke was in opened, and two people dressed in all white came marching in. They appeared a bit like mad scientists to Clarke, especially with their hair that stuck up at the ends as though they’d been playing with too much electricity. “Tell the Commander that we’re taking the girl to the bathroom,” she barked, and the two people in white bowed their heads before backing out of the room. The woman crossed the space between them, gripped Clarke by her arm and began to pull her up.

            “Nice,” said the man enthusiastically, starting toward her. The woman currently pulling Clarke to her feet whipped her head around to face him, and must have really glared at him because the man lifted his palms, shrugging as he backed off. “Fine, fine. I was just joking, anyway.”

            The shorter girl took Clarke’s other arm with her glove-less free hand and helped the other balance her. They marched her toward another door opposite the one Clarke had seen, and led her into a bathroom area.

            “Don’t mind Q,” spoke the glove girl as she and the taller girl untied Clarke’s arms. Clarke could see bright hazel eyes appraising her through the glove girl’s mask. “He just really hates Mount Weather.”

            _What the fuck is the Mount Weather? A fucking mountain?_

            “Where’s Wells?” asked Clarke in a shaky voice as she was pushed through a stall door.

            “Dead,” replied the taller girl, and Clarke felt her heart turn to ice in her chest as she gasped, her arm flinging out and finding the stall walls to support her so she wouldn’t fall to the ground. Her stomach had dropped to her feet, and tears easily overflowed and poured down her face. _Oh my God, Wells. Her best friend. Her Wells._

            “ _A_ ,” said the glove-girl disapprovingly, lightly slapping the taller girl on the shoulder. The taller girl, apparently called A, laughed.

            “Jesus, it was a joke, don’t have a breakdown. He’s fine, he’s in his cell. Been screaming about you for the past half hour since he woke, but he’s fine.”

            The relief was so sudden and overwhelming that Clarke’s knees went weak, and she really did sink to the floor this time.

            “Oh, no, get up!” said A in irritation, bending and hauling Clarke up by her arms again. “Take a piss so we can get out of here, or you can kiss your boyfriend goodbye.”

            _He’s not my boyfriend._ Clarke bit her tongue, aware that it was so far from mattering right now that she really shouldn’t care at all that her kidnapper had just called Wells her boyfriend. She hopped back (since her feet were still tied together), and the two women pulled the stall door shut.

            Clarke sat down and internally winced and cringed for a good thirty seconds as she emptied her bladder, the lone sound of urine hitting water and ceramic echoing in the room. Why in the world is this so awkward right now?

            She did her best to rip off some toilet paper as loudly as she could, to mask her desperation as she looked around the stall for something, anything, to defend herself with. It was two against one, she was weak and her legs were bound together, but she’d be damned if she didn’t go down without a fight.

            But there was nothing she could use. Not even a spare plunger behind the toilet. So she finished her business, opened the stall, and morosely hobbled out, holding her hands out to be tied.

            “Are you kidding me? Were you raised in a barn? Wash your hands!” snapped A. pointing at the sinks in front of Clarke. Clarke automatically felt her cheeks flush red, and she silently hopped once to stand before the sink and put her hand beneath the soap dispenser. How was she supposed to know that her kidnappers were concerned about hygiene? She would have thought if she had tried to step past them, she would’ve received another swift kick to the gut.

            The two women led Clarke back to the white room she had woken up in, and she saw that there was absolutely nothing in it except for a rickety old wooden table pushed against the grimy stone wall, positioned dead center between the two doors. A left Clarke with the glove-girl, who sat next to Clarke and briefly lifted the bottom of her mask so she could bring a bright red apple (where the fuck did the apple come from? Did she have pockets? Why is this relevant right now, Clarke?) to plump lips.

            “I’m E,” she said casually. There was always a hint of amusement in her voice, Clarke was quickly learning, as though she were always on the threshold of laughter, or perhaps knew a joke no one else was thinking of. “What’s your name?”

            “Fuck you,” Clarke snarled back.

            “Well that’s not very nice,” said E mildly, and she didn’t speak again for the entire time they waited. Clearly they were all using code names here. If Clarke could figure out who they were, and if she could find a way to escape with Wells…she would make them pay.

            When A finally returned, the man was back with her. They both came to stand by E and lean up against the table. Clarke watched them nervously, wondering what the hell they were going to do with her in the meantime, while they probably waited to hear from her father regarding the amount of hostage money they were demanding.

            “Is the Commander coming?” asked E.

            “Depends. First they’re bringing the DNA results to us,” A told the E, who nodded in response.

            DNA test? What the hell were they doing with DNA? A million theories ran through Clarke’s mind, each more unrealistic than the last. She’d been watching too much Orphan Black with her college roommate lately.

            “How long?” asked E, getting to her feet and tossing the apple core toward the distant trashcan; it sailed straight into it.

            “Any minute,” responded the man. The three stood up straighter; glove-girl stared up at the ceiling, the man glared towards the door, and A fixed her intense gaze onto Clarke.

            Clarke scowled right back at her, daring her to say something. She didn’t know who the fuck this lady was, but she decided then and there that out of all three of these idiots, she disliked her the most.

            As Clarke glowered at her, A’s head tilted slightly, and a new light came into her eyes, one of entertainment. Clarke felt her stomach sinking just as newfound anger bubbled inside her. Ever the riser to challenges, she vowed to herself that she would never let A beat her.

            The door opening broke the silence. “Hey Anya, I have news and you’re not going to believe—“

            “Are you fucking kidding me?” A howled, finally ripping away from their silent eye contest. Clarke raised her brows, pleasantly surprised that whoever it was that just strolled into the room had just majorly fucked up.

            “Anya, is it?” Clarke called out sweetly. The man glanced nervously at Clarke, while E shook her head in exasperation. “How sweet.”

            Anya made a loud growl, turning to stalk toward Clarke. “If you don’t shut the fuck up _right now_ , Princess, I’m going to literally cut your tongue out of your pretty fat mouth.”

            Clarke’s eyes narrowed.

            The woman dipped her head in satisfaction. “That’s fucking better.” She turned to face the newcomer, a fresh-faced blonde. She had her hand over her mouth and appeared horrified with herself. “ _Why_ did you just give away my—“

            “It’s okay,” the new woman said hastily, cutting across Anya. She raised the folded papers she held in her hand. “The Commander’s on her way now, she’s been given clearance.”

            Anya stared at her for a moment that stretched on too long before she brusquely prompted, “ _And?_ What are the results?”

            “We don’t know yet, but the Commander wants to talk to her. Alone. She said even if she’s not a match, she could still be valuable.”

            Anya gave a short, frustrated breath that hissed through her teeth. “Fine. Does she need us?”

            The woman shook her head. “Indra and Gustus are with her.”

            Clarke sat up a little straighter. This woman had just given away another person’s name, which only meant one thing. Whoever this Commander was, they may not be planning on keeping Clarke around.

            Swallowing past the hard lump in her throat and straining her ears to hear over the sound of her own thrashing heart, Clarke watched as her kidnappers left the room, E darting down briefly to whisper, “Have fun with the Commander,” before they left, leaving Clarke alone.

            She wasn’t alone for long. Eventually the door opened again.

            First entered a formidable man. He was a giant, tall and broad, and the combined elements of tattoos and scarring on his face complete with the long black beard made him positively frightening. The woman who entered after him, however, was even more frightening; while she was quite short and the tattoo that circled one of her eyes was not as detailed as the man’s, the fierce look in her eyes was enough to still Clarke.

            And yet the person who walked in next was even more impressive.

            She was decorated in armor, a vivid red scarf flowing from a shoulder guard. Her hair was pulled back in wildly complex braids that disappeared in her tangles of wild brown hair. Black paint tore from her eyes like angry tear marks, and while the other woman’s expression was aggressive, this girl’s was like steel: aloof, indifferent, but sharp. And she was _young_ —she hardly looked any older than Clarke.

            The younger girl walked straight over to Clarke and stood directly before her, the other woman and man flanking at a distance behind her. The girl stared at Clarke for a long moment, her arms behind her back.

            “So,” she said after the silence had stretched on perhaps too long. “You’re the one that took down two of my most promising recruits.”

            Clarke stubbornly held her gaze, eyes narrowed obstinately. “You’re the one that sent them there to kidnap me.”

            The girl stared at her, not even blinking once before tilting her head, her eyes never leaving Clarke’s. Her eyes were captivating, a light green that seemed to hold all the light in the room and reflect it out like a beam. “Tell me. Do you know who you are?”

            Clarke continued to stare right back, allowing her lip to curl up in disgust at the girl, at this, at all of this. “Of course I know who I am. I’m Clarke Wallace, and you’re in deep shit once I get out of here, you pathetic fucking coward.”

            The other woman moved forward, starting to pull a sword free from the sheath slung around her hips. “Commander, she is insolent, let me—“

            The woman fell silent when the girl lifted a hand. The girl was still looking at Clarke as though Clarke hadn’t just insulted her.

            “If you get out of here,” corrected the girl, tone and expression never wavering from utterly indifferent. Clarke had to fight hard to resist the urge to swallow and squirm.

            “Commander, the results are in!”

            The woman made a sound, a strange mixture of relief and anger that came out as an aggravated groan. “Good,” she said savagely, gripping the handle of her sword again, “Read it out, have the proof she isn’t a match and then let’s be done with her—“

            Clarke’s eyes widened and she almost squeaked in terror.

            The girl shook her head, waving the piece of paper in her hand and pushing it toward the Commander. “No, no, she—she is a match! She’s one of us! She’s not Mount Weather, she’s—she’s a Griffin.”

            There was utter silence. All three of Clarke’s captors stood frozen facing the girl. A full twenty seconds passed before one of them finally spoke up.

            “Griffin?” marveled the man, his tone awestruck.

            The girl nodded, a shining smile beaming out of a lovely face. “Yes! She’s Clarke Griffin, Clarke Griffin who’s been missing for—“

            “Twenty years,” said the Commander quietly, turning back to scrutinize Clarke. The other three turned too; the fresh-faced girl looked joyous, the man appeared curious, and the woman looked incredulous to the point of disbelieving. But the Commander, her gaze was cautious, hooded. As though she wasn’t sure she wanted to believe what she was hearing, as though she wasn’t sure if she were capable of it. Clarke could only remain where they had laid her down, her wrists aching where the rope was tied too tightly, her leg cramping beneath her, and her sweaty brow knitted in confusion as she looked back at the Commander.

            “Well,” the Commander said after a long moment. Her three companions remained where they were as she slowly advanced on Clarke, pulling the knife out of the sheath on her thigh. Clarke gasped and writhed, struggling to wriggle away, but the Commander wasn’t stabbing her. She was slicing the sharp knife through the tape around Clarke’s wrists, around Clarke’s legs. “I’m Lexa Woods,” the Commander introduced herself, aiming her steady gaze onto Clarke as she bent down and offered her free hand. If Lexa’s eyes were captivating from a distance, it was nothing compared to up close. They were large, luminous, and framed by long, thick lashes. And then there was the rest of her face— smooth tanned skin, defined cheekbones, an angled jaw to be admired, a long, straight nose, and full, plump lips. She was easily the most beautiful woman Clarke had ever seen, and the fact that it sent her pounding did nothing but aid in her confusion. “Welcome home, Clarke.”

           


	2. Ghost

           Clarke Griffin had become Clarke’s ghost. For the next six hours, she was ushered through throngs of unfamiliar faces, pulled into tight embraces by people she had never met before, and stood numbly as crying strangers wept on her shoulders that they had missed her and had never stopped looking for her.

            The problem was, Clarke couldn’t recall ever having gone missing, let alone meeting any of these people.

            Ironically, her original captors became a lifeline that she struggled to cling onto. E reintroduced herself as Emori, and the man introduced himself as Quint. Emori was as actually quite funny, and had no qualms about nudging herself into a conversation to take the focus off an obviously bewildered Clarke. Quint acted like an entirely new person now that he had taken off his mask; he apologized to Clarke for kicking her and acting like an all-around asshole, while easily spiriting her away from whatever uncomfortable situation she was in (most particularly when people were crying all over me) to take her to where the food was at. Anya, however, did nothing more than glower and glare whenever Clarke was in close proximity, so she learned to steer clear of her.

            Lexa Woods was nowhere to be found, and Clarke was relieved about that, at least. Whatever being the Commander entrailed, clearly Lexa had orchestrated the entire kidnapping. So even if there was something captivating about her, and Clarke wouldn’t be altogether _too_ displeased if she got the chance to have another glimpse of her—

            “Hello.”

            Speak of the devil. Clarke turned away from the elderly woman who was engaged in a conversation with a younger man about what Clarke had been like as a baby, which made no fucking sense to Clarke since she had lived in Maine when she was a baby. She turned to face none other than Lexa Woods, who stood a comfortable distance away from her, her gaze still hooded and wary as she appraised Clarke.      

            Maybe now the fact that Lexa arranged all this could prove beneficial, because Clarke wanted to know what the hell was going on. So she just asked her. “What the hell is going on?” she demanded, ignoring the shocked expressions of the people nearest her. The older woman and the younger man both shuffled a few feet away.

            “Shhh,” muttered Lexa quickly, glancing around at the people who were staring at them.

            “I will not _shhh!_ ” Clarke glared at her, planting her hands on her hips. “Where is Wells?”

            Lexa rolled her eyes as she gripped Clarke above her elbow and steered her around toward a staircase. Clarke thought about resisting at first, before realizing she may be leading her to Wells.

            Clarke ripped her arm from Lexa’s grasp and allowed Lexa to lead her up the stairs and down a long, narrow hallway, finally stopping before an ornate wooden door painted a rich purple and decorated with intricate carvings shaped somewhat like a willow tree.

            Her hand on the doorknob, Lexa turned to scrutinize her. “Look,” she said after a moment, her voice soft and low. “I know you’re confused, and probably pretty understandably angry. But this is a difficult situation, and that makes it hard. I apologize for the way my people and I treated you. It wasn’t professional, and we should have gave you the benefit of the doubt before treating you like you were part of Mount Weather.”

            Clarke huffed an impatient breath, irritated beyond belief. “ _What_ is this Mount Weather no one seems to be shutting up about?”

            Lexa gave her a strange look, tilting her head and letting her braided brunette hair swing forward to frame her face before she caught it and tucked it behind her ear. “You’re telling me you don’t even know what Mount Weather is? Or who we are?”

            Clarke shook her head resolutely. Lexa’s eyes widened before she scowled, cursing.

            “Great,” she said flatly. “No fucking wonder you were so hard to deal with.” She sighed. “Okay, just come in here, and we’ll get things sorted. We’ll explain everything to you, but you have to sit and hear us out. Alright?”

            Clarke chewed her bottom lip as she contemplated the offer. Finally, she nodded. “Deal.” She took the hand Lexa offered for her to shake, ignoring the slight tingle that her warm hand gave her. She had honestly never seen anyone as beautiful as her. She didn’t look like she belonged here, in this ancient-looking building. She looked like she belonged on the cover of a magazine. Clarke had always known she was reasonably attractive, and many a person had told her she was beautiful. But next to this woman, Clarke felt small and pale in comparison—especially considering she was still wearing the filthy silver dress she had been wearing last night, and had not had the chance to fix her makeup, hair, or do anything other than use the cheap new toothbrush they had allowed her to use.

            Lexa swung the door open and stepped back, allowing Clarke to go inside first. When she did, the first thing she noticed was the huge round table, situated in the center of a large room with a high ceiling that made the place seem much bigger than it actually was. There were several people seated at it, the most striking the man who sat what Clarke guessed was at the head of the table, his chair being the largest.

            “Sit,” said the man. Rather than argue against it and make things more difficult for herself, Clarke heeded Lexa’s request, and sat down at the chair farthest from the man’s. Lexa eased down into the chair next to Clarke’s, and exchanged greeting nods with the other five people who were in the room.

            “My name is Charles Pike,” said the man, clasping his hands together before him. He was looking across the table at Clarke as though she were a piece of meat, ready to be prodded and inspected before he threw her onto a grill. Clarke shifted in her seat, uncomfortable. What was up with all the intense stares today? “Do you know who you are?”

            Clarke blinked at the question, wondering if this was about any more of that Clarke Griffin nonsense. “My name is Clarke Wallace.”

            “No,” said Pike, shaking his head. He pointed a finger at Clarke. “Your name is Clarke Griffin.”

            Clarke sucked in a long breath, struggling to rein in her steadily climbing temper. “No,” she said, keeping her tone deliberately light. She pointed at herself. “Clarke Wallace.”

            “She doesn’t know anything about this,” interjected Lexa, but she fell silent when her superior shook his head again.

            “Get Abby in here. This is her place, not ours.”

            The slim man who sat at the chair nearest Charles’s stood up and walked out of the door behind the table, opposite the one Lexa and Clarke entered through. The silence he left behind was awkward and stifling, but Clarke still decided she should use this opportunity to speak up and ask where her best friend was.

            Before she could, however, the man was already back, with a woman following in behind her.

            The woman was short and slight, with sharp eyes and long brunette hair. She was pretty. When her gaze landed on Clarke’s, her eyes immediately welled up, and she brought an unsteady hand to her quivering mouth, choking back a sob. “Oh my God—“ She staggered over to Clarke, standing a few feet away from her as though she were afraid to come any closer. Clarke frowned at her, baffled and more than a little disturbed, particularly when the woman raised her hand, reaching toward Clarke and touching shaking fingertips to her forehead.

            “Um, what the f—“ Clarke started as she pushed my chair back from the woman, freaked the fuck out, but before she could continue my sentence, Pike spoke up.

            “She doesn’t know anything.”

            The woman cast an astonished, tearful gaze at Pike, swallowing hard before she shifted her gaze back onto Clarke. “Clarke—“ she whispered, before Pike interrupted again.

            “Abby, I know this is an important moment to you, but we can’t afford to waste any unnecessary time. Explain it to her, so we can move on with things.”

            Lexa rose out of her seat to offer it to the woman, who lowered down onto it slowly, never taking her eyes off Clarke. Then, slowly, with tears in her voice, she spoke. “You…your n—name is Clarke Griffin. And you…you’re my daughter.”

            Clarke blinked balefully up at the woman, her stomach roiling with nausea at this unprecedented turn of events. “I’m not adopted,” she said dumbly. When the Abby’s brows knitted together, Clarke went on. “I’m not adopted. I have a father and a mother. I have parents. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She looked up at Pike. “Whatever’s going on, I think you have the wrong person.”

            “DNA does not lie, young lady,” spoke Pike calmly. “That is your mother, and you are her daughter.”

            Clarke looked back at the woman, dumbstruck. She saw nothing in her countenance that even remotely imitated hers. Were these people crazy? She was Clarke. Clarke Wallace. She was not this Clarke Griffin they were all so intent on believing she was. “I don’t thi—“

            “You look just like him,” whispered the woman in wonder as she studied Clarke, tears rolling over her cheeks. “Just like him.”

            “Who are you people?” said Clarke loudly, panicked now. Fuck Lexa’s deal. This was creeping her out, and she was scared. She didn’t want to be here. She wanted to be at home with Wells, where it was safe and comfortable and familiar, where they could critique one another’s art and have movie marathons and everything made sense. “What’s—“

            Pike stood up, clear disappointment on his face as he briefly glanced at Abby before meeting Clarke’s gaze. “Allow me, Abby seems unable to put on her big girl britches and be the mother she was never given the chance to be.” There was a stunned silence in the room, in which Abby slowly turned to look at Pike, tears rolling down his cheeks. Pike closed his eyes for a moment, inhaling and exhaling, before he opened them again and inclined his head. “I’m sorry. That was insensitive.” He stood up straighter, walking around the table, pacing as he began to speak. “The woman before you is our top Healer Abigail Griffin, or as she’s known by many of our people, Mama Griffin. Our people make up the thirteen clans—we hail from all over the world. We are a group of military-trained specialists, created in order to hunt down and execute the remaining members of the corrupted branch of government extremists commonly known as Mount Weather since they tend to find and create strongholds to use as fortresses against us while they attempt to manipulate their way to the top in various political conspiracies.”

            Clarke glanced down at Lexa, who only studied her stricken expression, something akin to pity in her green eyes.

            “As I said, my name is Charles Pike, and I am the leader of the clans. We’ve been engaged in open war with the enduring affiliates of Mount Weather for the past eighty years, during which my father, and my father’s mother led before me. Mount Weather is always recruiting new members, generally through forms of mass influence and dogmatic harrying. On occasional, there are spies who infiltrate the clans and use our information and our members against us. That’s where you come in.”

            Pike turned to face Clarke, his hands behind his back and his expression solemn. “Twenty years ago, two prominent members of our organization had a two-year old child named Clarke Griffin. Nia, another member of our organization, turned sides. She took Clarke from under our noses, and escaped with her. She brought the child to one Dante Smith, the recently promoted leader of Mount Weather, who joined after he was fired from his own government job for selling information to terrorists. He faked his death, started over, and gave himself a new identity as one Dante Wallace, married to one Nia Wallace, otherwise known as the newly blonde Nia Glacier, and parents to their adorable young toddler, Clarke Wallace.”

            Clarke gaped open-mouthed at Pike, who stood staring expectantly at Clarke as though he had predicted her to thank him for such information.

            Clarke was in shock. They were accusing her father of…of horrible things. Of potential murder, for giving information to terrorists. Of lying to trick the government, of kidnapping a child and raising it as his own. They were accusing her mother of the same. This…none of this could possibly be even close to the truth, could it?

            Pike raised a hand and beckoned toward the man that sat two chairs down. With a serene smile, the man reached into the briefcase resting on the table. He set out one, two, three books before finally handing a small green binder to Pike, who opened it briefly to sift through the pages before he handed it over to Abigail Griffin. Abby took the booklet with quivering hands, opened it up and set it on the table before Clarke. Clarke’s heart was thumping a tattoo against her chest as she leaned forward and peered down at the pictures plastered over the pages, and she felt sick as she grasped what she was looking at.

            The child could hardly be more than a year old, but it was unmistakably her. Her hair was almost white-blonde and there wasn’t very much of it. She was being scooped up in the arms of some laughing blonde man, who stood before a laughing woman who was….Abigail Griffin. The woman who claimed to be Clarke’s….but no. This wasn’t enough proof.

            “This…this could be fake,” she said, desperation clear in her tone. And it certainly could be. There was plenty of technology that let people make fake photos like this…even if her gut feelings told her it wasn’t.

            “I think we all know it’s not,” said Pike simply.

            _It could be real,_ a tiny voice in the back of Clarke’s head whispered. What a strange coincidence, that she had never seen a single photograph of herself any younger than around three years old, nor any pictures of her mother pregnant with her. Her parents had told her they had lived in a different home, and that a fire had taken all of their valued possessions. And yet, there were clearly pictures of her parents at their wedding, holding hands and presenting broad smiles that didn’t quite meet their eyes. How convenient…

            And then there was the fact that her family was so well-off. They quite literally had millions of dollars. From what? Clarke had always assumed it was from rich grandparents, who had died before she’d been born. But maybe…

            But no. This couldn’t possibly be real.

            Her chest rising and falling rapidly with her shallow breathing, she looked up at Lexa again; she wasn’t sure why, other than the fact that this was possibly the only person in the room as young as she was. Lexa certainly looked young, but there was anything but youth in her eyes. She looked back at Clarke with that pity solidified, and empathy, as though she had been here before.

            Clarke’s entire life just may be a lie.

            What was she supposed to do about that?

            Her hands shaking, she pushed the binder away. Pike seemed to take that as confirmation, and with a snap of his fingers, the other man stuffed the binder back into his briefcase and closed it with a click.

            Clarke wanted nothing more than to melt away into the air. To be alone. To feel safe again, not alienated in this strange new world where she was not the person she had always believed she was. She felt a sudden rush of loathing for her parents, for Charles Pike, and for Abigail Griffin. For her parents for lying to her among all the other things they did, if they really did them at all, for Pike for telling Clarke the truth this way, by kidnapping her and bringing her to this fucked up place where everyone cried and hugged her and told her they’d missed her, and for Abby for never bothering to hunt Clarke down, assuming they were really related at all.

            Clarke missed her best friend. She wanted Wells’s familiar arms around her, pulling her into his warm embrace. “Where’s my friend?” she asked Pike, who raised his brows at the anxiety in Clarke’s voice. “Where’s Wells?”

            “Mr. Jaha is being detained.”

            “I want to see him.” A few of the people around the table cast wary glances at them, obviously uncomfortable with the demanding tone Clarke was exhibiting to their leader. She didn’t know whether it was out of indignity over Clarke’s lack of respect, or caution over the thin ice she was treading on in ordering something from a man like Pike. Either way, she didn’t care. She just wanted to see her best friend and make sure he was okay.

            “You can’t,” replied Pike calmly. Before Clarke could start snarling her retort, Pike silenced her with a raised hand. “You can’t,” he repeated. “You were born a Skaikru. He is a Jaha. The Jahas are a well-known gang of criminals who have been aiding Mount Weather in their efforts against the clans for as long as they’ve been around. We cannot risk Wells Jaha getting free and informing them of our whereabouts. We will assess the situation, and figure out the best process with which to deal with him.”

            “Deal with him?” Clarke thundered, her voice growing louder with each syllable. “He’s not in a gang! He’s my best friend! He’s a sculptor! He’s Wells!” Clarke felt arms close around her middle, pulling her back from the table. Pike continued to glare at her as she was hauled out of the room, screaming with each involuntary drag. “You can’t hurt him! You can’t! He’s innocent! He doesn’t have anything to do with you! He’s a sculptor! Let him go!”

            Pike _had_ to let him go. They couldn’t harm him. What if they hurt him? Clarke couldn’t bear the thought of him being hurt. He was her person, he was her best friend and she loved him too much to lose him. When was the last time she’d even told him she loved him? She felt ice flood through her veins as she remembered.

            _Five months ago. The end of Christmas break. Clarke had been over at his parents’ for dinner, and he was taking her home. He took a different route to her house, stopped at an ice cream shop and bought her her favorite strawberry cone. As they sat on the park bench, he had leaned forward and caught her lips beneath his. Clarke froze, and she felt her ice cream cone crunch under her tightened grip. Panic sparked through her; she didn’t know what to do. This was her third kiss with him, the first was when they were ten years old and decided they wanted to try kissin;, the second was when they were sixteen and Wells told Clarke he thought he loved her, so Clarke kissed him, because that was what you were supposed to do. And now here. How does she tell him no again? How does she explain to him that she doesn’t feel butterflies when she kissed him? You were supposed to feel butterflies. Everyone felt butterflies when they kissed someone they liked, they all did in the books she read and the movies she watched. She didn’t feel butterflies when Wells kissed her, she hadn’t felt butterflies when Marie kissed her outside of the cafeteria in high school, she hadn’t felt butterflies when Ricky, Bob, Lindsey, or Chris had kissed her either. Maybe something was wrong with her. Maybe she just needed to try harder._

_So she leaned forward and pushed her lips harder into Wells, her breasts bumping up against his chest, and she could practically feel his surprise and excitement at her response. He gently, tentatively brushed her hair back from her face before splaying his fingertips across the curves of her cheeks, stroking her softly as he deepened the kiss. Clarke felt nothing but panic, panic at the fact that she felt nothing. It was an endless paradox that poured fuel onto the fire that was her grief. He was her best friend, he was so kind and smart and talented and perfect. Why couldn’t she feel anything?_

_Frustrated, she took a handful of his shirt, yanked him even closer as she parted her lips and kissed him with more aggression, more passion, a slight growl even ripping forth from her throat. Wells struggled to catch up, enthusiastic with the turn of events. He thought that it was them. That Clarke was enjoying this, and that’s why she was kissing him this way. He didn’t and couldn’t understand that Clarke was just overcompensating, trying to create something out of thin air that she knew would never exist. It wasn’t him. It was her._

_She pushed him back abruptly, and they both sat where they were, panting. Clarke’s half-eaten ice cream had fallen to the pavement, and her fingers were sticky with the sweet melted mess that had dribbled out of the bit of cone she had crushed. Wells’s own ice cream lay forgotten on the edge of the bench; fortunately, he had gotten a bowl, not a cone._

_Why was she even thinking so much about this ice cream? There was a more significant problem at hand._

_Wells was smiling at her, pure happiness lighting up his eyes. “I love you, Clarke. I’ve been in love with you since the second grade. Please, say you’ll give me a chance. Go out with me.”_

_Clarke stared at him, feeling as though she were an actor paralyzed on stage, gawking out at the audience with the vastest spotlight focused directly on her. She hated herself. She hated herself for her selfishness, for using Wells to try to convince herself she felt something. She hated herself for failing to, yet again. Something_ must _be wrong with her._

_“I—I can’t,” she stammered, dropping her hands from Wells’ chest. She looked down at her lap, avoiding the crestfallen expression she knew would be on his face. “I can’t, Wells,” she said quietly, a furious blush painting itself ruddy on her cheeks. “I—I don’t want to risk what we have. Our friendship…it means everything to me.”_

_“Aw, Clarke, come on,” groaned Wells, and she looked up, surprised at the anguish that was displaying itself so clearly in his tone and on his face. “This is awesome,” he said adamantly, taking her chin gently between two fingers. “Think of how much better it could be if we took it even farther. I’d do anything for you. All I want is to see you smile, to make you happy and bring a laugh out of you every day. You deserve everything, Clarke Wallace, and I promise I would do my best to give it to you.”_

_“Wells, I…” She was at a loss for words, and feeling absolutely wretched with herself._

_“Please,” he said earnestly. “Give this a chance. And hey, just imagine…if we were dating, I would sculpt every day for you.”_

_Clarke was tearing up, a lump in her throat at the unfairness of this all, for Wells and for herself. He deserved so much better than her, and she was tired of hurting him. “You already sculpt every day for me, you loser, we’re in the same art class,” she reminded him lightly, her voice croaky with the effort of fighting to hold back tears._

_“Yeah, but do I sculpt_ naked _for you?” he asked smugly, and Clarke was so shocked that she forgot to fight the tears, and she broke down into heavy sobs that shook her entire body. Wells made a distressed noise, pulling her into a hug again. Clarke wept in his arms, listening as he whispered assurances that it was okay._

_“You know I love you,” she told him, her voice thick with tears as she stared through blurry eyes at her hand, as she methodically spread and closed her fingers together, watching the way the melted ice cream clung to her skin. “Just…friend. I friend-love you.”_

_“I know,” murmured Wells, continuing to stroke her and tell her he would wait, wait until she was ready._

_Clarke didn’t know how to tell him that she knew she never would be._

 

            “For fuck’s sake, shut your mouth, before he has him shot,” muttered a voice that yanked Clarke out of her memories. Clarke realized it had been Lexa who had lugged her out of the room.

            Clarke quieted at once at her warning, winded as Lexa let her go and she stumbled before she regained balance. “You have to let him go,” she insisted as she reeled around to face Lexa. She was again taken aback at how flawless her eyes were, green and glowing in the dim light of the lone light bulb in the hallway. She was at a closer proximity than Clarke was used to, and she lurched back to provide some much-needed space.

            “I’ll try my best,” said Lexa simply, appearing stressed as she ran a hand through her hair. Clarke stood stupidly, caught off guard by how easily Lexa agreed to help her.

            “Thank you,” she said suspiciously. She grew very aware that her own hair must look terrible right now, and she self-consciously brushed her fingertips through it, uncomfortable.

            Lexa’s gaze followed the movement, and she spoke again, her words faltering with her own obvious discomfort. “Do you, um…Do you want some clothes, or something? To change into? We’re probably the same size…”

            “I don’t know,” mumbled Clarke, smoothing a wrinkle on her hip with her palm. It was pointless, considering her entire dress seemed to be composed of nothing but wrinkles.

            “Oh. Right.” Lexa dipped her head, looking fixedly at the ground, and the awkwardness in the air was so palpable a knife probably couldn’t have cut through it. “I guess…I’ll just show you to your room, then.”

            “I have a room?”

            Lexa nodded, starting to walk forward. Clarke followed her, easily keeping up with her long stride. “Yeah. It’s right next to mine, so if you need anything…” As her voice trailed off, Clarke frowned at a new thought.

            “Why would they…?”

            “So I can make sure you don’t try to do anything reckless,” said Lexa honestly, confirming Clarke’s thoughts. Lexa was basically her guard, here to make sure Clarke wouldn’t try to go bust Wells out on her own, or escape.

            “Makes sense,” she breathed, and they fell silent as they rounded a corner and headed down another lengthy hallway.

            Lexa opened a door at the end of the hallway. Clarke followed her into a room that made her jaw drop. The bed was huge (with a headboard that towered nearly to the ceiling) and covered in rich comforters and lavish pillows that looked as though one could get lost in them. There was a mini-fridge perched upon the baroque dresser, and a big-screen TV hung on the wall adjacent to the bed. If they gave rooms like this to people they ordered a guard to watch overnight, Clarke could only imagine how they treated their actual guests.

            “ _This_ …is my room.”

            Oh. Of course. Clarke hid her disappointment with a carefully composed blank expression, as Lexa didn’t bother to hide her smirk as she crossed the room to her dresser and pulled out a few articles of clothing. She tossed them at Clarke as she passed by her again, back into the hallway. She closed the door behind her. “Don’t be weird, just take them,” she ordered when Clarke started to argue.

            Clarke arched a brow when she realized they were rather scanty nightgowns. Lexa shrugged when Clarke met her gaze. “It’s all I have.”

            Clarke neck and ears grew uncomfortably hot, as she understood this must be all Lexa wore or, if these were the most decent clothes she could give her, she probably wore much less than this. Clarke coughed, bewildered at the fact that she was blushing. If she didn’t know any better, she would say the idea made her flustered. Which made zero sense, considering this was just some random girl who, several hours ago, had been someone she thought had kidnapped me.

            As though traveling along the same wavelength, Lexa asked, “By the way…if you don’t mind me asking. If you didn’t know about any of this…why did you run?”

            The bar. Gina, and Bellamy. Right. Looking at it now, Clarke could see how it looked as though she were onto them, and running…especially when she used her father to threaten Bellamy, and then later Lexa as well.

            “I thought Bellamy was a reporter and had heard my father was going to run for governor,” Clarke confessed. “I thought he was trying to make stories up about me, or use me as a hostage to get a ransom sum out of us. People have tried that before.”

            Lexa looked torn between disapproval and reasonable entertainment. “I suppose that makes sense,” she conceded, after a pregnant pause. “For the record, they’re both fine.” At the blank expression she was met with, she added, “Gina and Bellamy. They’re fine. Still unconscious, but our doctor said they’ll heal up fine and be back to normal activity in a couple of days.”

            “Oh yeah…what exactly happened in that bar, anyway?” Clarke asked tensely. I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to feel about Gina. At this point, she didn’t know whether she was friend or foe.

            “Bellamy is a clan member. That’s how we found you.”

            Clarke’s eyebrows rose. “Found me?”

            “Well, actually, I did.” Lexa gave a small smile, the closest to one Clarke had seen her give, with only the corners of her lips barely curved upwards. “When Bellamy started seeing Gina seriously, he brought Gina into the loop. Gina was hanging out here at headquarters waiting for Bellamy to get back from basic training. He was scrolling through Facebook, and I saw a picture of you.”

            Clarke’s brow furrowed; if there was a point here, she was missing it. “How would that—“

            “We’ve actually met before,” interrupted Lexa, and her lips tugged into a wider smile, almost abashed as she held Clarke’s baffled gaze. “If you had looked on through that green binder, you would have seen a picture of us. When we were babies. Our parents used to be friends,” she supplied at Clarke’s lingering confusion.

            This was just too surreal. Here Clarke was, standing with a woman who she had apparently known when she was an infant, who was now her captor and prison guard. What the hell had her twisted-up life coming to?

            Part of her wondered if this wasn’t some big, elaborate joke.

            “I recognized the picture, found out information about you through Gina. I already pretty much knew when he told me about the Jahas, but when I found pictures of your parents and showed them to Pike, he officially knew. We got the go-ahead from Pike, and set up Bellamy for his first mission. He’s good, but he’s new and inexperienced. That bomb that went off in the bar wasn’t supposed to except for emergencies. My guess is that when you threatened him with your father, he panicked and hit the button.”

            No wonder Gina had been acting so weird; Bellamy was a trained professional, but Gina wasn’t. She must have been a terrified mess.

            Another thought occurred to Clarke then, and she agitatedly fiddled with a stray thread poking out of the hem of her dress before hesitantly asking, “If my father really did…you know…why, do you think?”

            Lexa considered Clarke’s question for a long moment, green eyes seeming to burn through her. Clarke wasn’t sure what it was about her, but something about that penetrating stare sent shivers down her spine, and it was pretty damn hard to convince herself that they were unpleasant ones. “Honestly?” Lexa finally said after a time. “Probably to use you as a hostage. Maybe murder you to exact revenge, and to get a payout at the same time.”

            _Ouch._ The severity of the theory hit Clarke like a load of bricks. She was disconcerted with Lexa’s level of honesty. Most people would probably have at least tried to sugarcoat it, but she supposed it really wasn’t surprising that Lexa’s personality was as intense and unapologetic as her gaze.

            Clarke nodded; there was no need to say anymore. Lexa started walking again, and Clarke followed. They crossed the few feet away from Lexa’s door to stop before another. Inside, it wasn’t quite as lavish as Lexa’s room, and the colors were only a dull gray rather than red and bold as hers had been, but it certainly wasn’t anything to complain about. It was more than Clarke would have expected. “Thanks,” she muttered before stepping inside. As she turned to close the door, she found herself stopped by a graceful hand with long, slender fingers splayed out in the center of the door. She didn’t understand why her heart kicked a little faster when she turned to meet Lexa’s dark gaze again.

            “One last thing,” she said, and Clarke waited for the other shoe to drop. Lexa tilted her head, a thoughtful frown gracing her undeniably breathtaking features. “What do you prefer to be called?”

            Clarke returned the frown, though she was sure it wasn’t nearly as attractive on her tear-stained, in-severe-need-of-a-bath face. “What?”

            “Your name,” she explained politely. “Clarke Wallace, Clarke Griffin?”

            Her name. The thought brought a sick new twist of revulsion to the pit of her stomach. There was her old name, Wallace. And her new but old name, Griffin. Neither one fit her. Griffin was the name given to her by her psycho-terrorist family, who had kidnapped her from her real family. At the same time, Griffin was the name she was meant to have, but never had the chance to…

            “Or a new one?” proposed Lexa, again seeming to read Clarke’s thoughts. “What about your middle name?” At Clarke’s confused, slightly forlorn expression, she cringed, scrunching her face up adorably. “Shit. Right. You don’t know. It’s Elyza.”

            “I think I should probably stick to Clarke for now,” she mused aloud.

            Clarke Griffin. Clarke Wallace. It was a mess.

            “I like Wallace,” suggested Lexa, cocking an eyebrow. “Wallace is hot.”

            Clarke blinked twice in shock before a heat flooded through her body, as she seemed to melt beneath Lexa’s penetrating gaze, like she knew exactly how attractive she was and the effect it had on people. Clarke was also certain Lexa had only said that to annoy her into not taking that name.

            Clarke rolled her eyes. “Griffin.” She ignored the way Lexa’s lips quirked in the ghost of a smirk..

            Lexa’s other brow winged up now. “Positive?”

            Clarke nodded. “If I was really born a Griffin, then I might as well…”

            “Own it,” finished Lexa for her. “Okay then. Clarke Griffin.” Lexa reached out, showing what was growing almost into an actual real smile as she took Clarke’s hand and shook it. “Nice to officially meet you.”

            Clarke’s witty response faltered in her throat as she floundered under the shock of seeing Lexa smile for the first time. Her full lips were spread wide, her white teeth sparkling. She was actually stunning, so beautiful it wasn’t fair, and not because she was jealous, but because how fucked up was it that now, with her, here of all places, while Wells was somewhere in a cell and Clarke had a new identity with the old one chasing her down with a vengeance, as she gazed back into the intense green eyes of her apparently very old friend, she finally felt what she’d been looking to feel her entire life:

            Fucking butterflies in her belly, spreading fire with each flutter of their wingtips.

**Author's Note:**

> I got around 3 chapters of this fic actually finished, then will start to write new content. I hope you guys enjoyed it so far and please let me know what you think!


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